


VdFJ One-Shots

by RStiltskinned



Category: Vivaldi: Die fünfte Jahreszeit - Kolonovits/Messner
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, I take prompts, basically just a place to dump plot bunnies, one shots, sometimes AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 21:31:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20664116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RStiltskinned/pseuds/RStiltskinned
Summary: Basically exactly what the title says.





	1. Chapter 1

**I.**

It was not at all uncommon to hear dissonant shouts disrupt the tranquillity of the Pietà’s music school; today, however, the man causing said ruckus seemed to be in a particularly foul mood. Vivaldi ran his hand through his ginger hair in deep frustration. “No, no, no! For the hundredth time, the violins are ahead while the cellos come in two beats too late! How you all can get it wrong in the same manner repeatedly is beyond me. Again!” He waved his hand imperiously at his students. The girls were positively shaking in their white frocks – their maestro sometimes lost his temper, but he rarely lashed out at them like this. Catarina had grown pale as she cowered behind her double bass and Maria, the youngest of them at just fifteen, looked like she was about to burst into tears. They ran through the piece again, and this time Vivaldi remained silent, seemingly finding no faults. Still, there was a sense of gloom that his outburst had left hanging over the orchestra. Today, there was no animated chatter as they gathered their things and collected the practice sheets from his pianoforte; instead, a downtrodden line of girls trudged from the room, casting questioning glances at the priest who had turned his grim gaze towards the window.

Catarina, as usual, was the last to leave, her instrument being the most cumbersome to carry. As she made for the door, she seemed torn, her dark eyes flitting back and forth between Vivaldi and her friends. Finally, she gathered her courage and turned back towards the classroom, letting the heavy double bass rest against one if the now empty stools. Vivaldi’s back was turned to her; he was still facing the window, seemingly lost in thought. Bravely, Catarina squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “So, what was that all about, Maestro?” He looked at her and surprise flashed across his handsome features before they settled back into a stern mien. “Ca-Signorina Russo,” he said in clipped tones, “you should be heading back to the orphanage with your friends.” Catarina deflated a little at his cool addressal of her, but persevered. “We weren’t doing badly enough for you to be this mean. Maria was crying. She’s only been with the orchestra a month, if you keep going like that you’ll put her off playing,” she snapped and then, in a calmer tone, added “Maestro.”

Vivaldi opened his mouth to retort, but instead sighed and let his shoulders drop; in an instant, it seemed as if all anger had left him and he seemed utterly exhausted. He ran his hand over his face and Catarina suddenly noticed how worn he looked – as if he hadn’t slept properly in a while. “Scusami,” he said quietly, “it has been…a trying week. You are right, I should not have taken my anger out on you girls.” Immediately, Catarina’s anger was replaced by worry. She stepped closer to her teacher, silently wishing she could embrace him or offer any other form of comfort. Gathering all her courage, she shyly placed her hand on his arm. He tensed and looked at her in surprise; to her amazement, a light shade of pink was blooming on his cheeks. She quickly retracted her hand but he grasped it before she could, prompting a startled squeak from her. “Maestro…?”

He said nothing but kept holding her hand in his much larger one. She could feel the callouses on his fingertips, put there by years of tireless violin practice – she had them too, though hers were much less developed. Her breath hitched in her throat as he stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. Then Vivaldi cleared his throat and stepped back; the moment was over, whatever it had been. He busied himself collecting his music sheets from the piano, carefully avoiding making eye contact with Catarina. “Ah – scusa, I- er. Well – um – what I mean to say is, please tell the girls they need to practice more but that they have been making great improvements – my apologies, too, please let them know I am terribly sorry for today – ah!”

A stack of papers fluttered from his hands, interrupting him. With a curse, he scooped them up. Catarina watched silently, still dumbstruck, as he collected his remaining things and swished past her in a whirl of black robes and flame-coloured hair. Already halfway through the door, he stopped and turned.

“Catarina?”

“Si?”

He smiled warmly and her stomach did a somersault.

“Grazie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

“Er- Buongiorno.”

The congregation, a group of about five dozen people, stared at him blankly. One of the altar servers cleared his throat pointedly.

“Ah right,” Vivaldi hastened to correct his blunder, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” He crossed himself and the congregation followed suit, chanting “Amen” in unison.

_Oh, hell_.

This wasn’t his first mass, but that didn’t mean he had shown any improvement in that area. Why did he have to read mass anyway? Couldn’t they just leave him in peace to compose and maybe call on him every now and then for a wedding or a baptism? Heliked those. He was _good_ at those. But masses – masses were the worst. Not only did they require him to learn a lot of Latin verses by heart, but everyone was constantly staring at him. Normally, he didn’t mind being the centre of attention – on the contrary, he thrived when all eyes were on him – but here, inside the cavernous depths of the church, it felt like everyone was just waiting for him to slip up. Vivaldi felt bitterness rear its ugly head inside him; he hadn’t chosen a clerical career. It had been foisted upon him against his will when his mother had all but sold him to Monsignore Ruffo. It was thanks to Tommaso-bloody-Ruffo that he was now sweating inside his heavy vestments as he dutifully ran through the old lines of Latin he had been studying since boyhood. The parishioners rose to sing the first hymn – truly, the most, if not only, enjoyable part of this whole miserable affair – and Vivaldi used this moment of relief to survey the crowd.

Was it just him or were the more people than the weeks before? No, he wasn’t mistaken; the crowd had definitely grown in size and he noted, to his bemusement, that the newcomers were mostly women. Ah, so the rumours of the handsome_Il Prete Rosso_ had apparently reached beyond his small parish and drawn curious devotees to his church who had come to see the famous red-headed priest and musician. The entire front section of pews was filled with women of various ages – widows, virgins and wives – who adoringly took in every syllable that passed his lips, gazing at him in a way that he suspected was not of an entirely pieous nature.

Vivaldi couldn’t help it – he preened, just a little.

However, the smug satisfaction was quickly replaced by renewed dread as the hymn ended and he was forced to continue preaching. He could feel his chest seize up and cleared his throat – his lung affliction, as so often before, was making itself noticeable. The redhead tried to calm his breathing by composing a little ditty in his head. Soon, his mind was fully occupied with music and he kept losing focus on his mass, prompting some titters from his flock and exasperated glances from the altar servers. Oh, but what a charming tune had come to him – a pretty melody that, with some work, could become a lovely concerto! His fingers itched with the need to put pen to paper and write down his composition – but mass was not over for another hour. Unless…unless, of course, his lung condition just _happened_ to become worse.

Vivaldi took a deep breath and let out a dramatic wheeze. He coughed, spluttered and gagged. Two altar boys rushed forward in alarm and tried to steady him. He swooned a little for emphasis, eliciting shocked “ooohs” from the crowd.

“My children…!” he wheezed “scusatemi, my flock….I am unwell, I must rest…Monsignor Michèle, would you be so kind as to conclude mass in my place?” _Cough, cough, wheeze, wheeze_. Monsignor Michèle, an elderly and blessedly gullible priest, nodded and motioned for the altar boys to help Vivaldi (who made sure to stumble as he left the pulpit) to the sacristy where he could rest. He let the children lead him to the chamber and sank into a chair with a weak cough before sending them back into the main hall. As soon as they had left, he threw off the heavy robes with a sigh of relief and reached for the paper on his desk (it was meant for any notes he made on his mass, but it had not been used for this purpose even once).

With a devious grin, the priest dipped his quill into the ink and set to work.


End file.
